


Rosary

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alien Abduction, Gen, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: He picks up a rosary once.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Season 2  
> A/N: For an anonymous user on Tumblr.  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

He picks up a rosary once, when he’s stumbled into a church in search of some sort of solace. She’s gone, taken by forces beyond his capacity to search out or prosecute, but her faith remains: her tiny cross jolts on its chain inside his shirt. He doesn’t know who left the rosary hooked over the end of the pew, but he hefts it anyway. He’ll put it back when he’s done. Thou shalt not steal, he’s fairly certain that’s a rule. 

The church smells vaguely of incense and spilled wine and the nervous sweat of the guilty hearts that step into the confession booth and come out washed clean. He weighs the rosary in his hands. It’s weightier than it looked. The beads are real wood. He can feel the grooves of the grain against his fingertips.

He doesn’t know what to say. Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women, maybe, but then there’s nothing else in his memory, just mumbling. He doesn’t know any prayers anymore, despite temple in his youth, despite his father’s mother taking him to church on Christmas and Easter in the face of his mother’s pointed glares. 

As the beads slide through his fingers, he thinks of Scully. This bead, the time she brought him an iced tea, apropos of nothing, and left it sweating on his desk. He’s never tasted anything more refreshing since. That bead, the way she falls asleep on planes, her eyes jerking under the thin skin of her lids, her breathing shallow. Another bead, the steadiness of her aim as she sights down the barrel of her Bureau-issued weapon. Another, her laugh, sudden and bright like a ray of sun breaking through a cloudy afternoon.  
Blessed art thou, he thinks, and wraps the rosary tightly around his hand. The beads nestle between the bones and tendons of his palm, solid reminders of her absence. The ache in his hand is nothing compared to the ache in his heart. He stifles a sob, just one, and bows his head. He has nothing to pray for. He has no one to thank for the gift of her.

He leaves the rosary on the pew and tucks a few dollars into the collection box on the way out. There’s a font and he touches his fingertips to the surface of the holy water. It’s cool, but there’s no tingle in it, no magic, no burning censure for his sins. It’s wet. It’s water. He isn’t sure what to do with the drops that cling to his fingers, so he wipes his hand on his shirt, leaving damp marks over his heart.


End file.
